


Vengeance Is An Idiot’s Game

by thickskeleton



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I barely alter the dialogue, I pretty much blur over the actual event, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape Aftermath, Revenge, Trauma, but tw still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thickskeleton/pseuds/thickskeleton
Summary: Vengeance is an idiot's game, but Arthur Morgan has never claimed to be a smart man.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Vengeance Is An Idiot’s Game

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during my first play-through because it bothered me so much that this event goes completely unresolved. I didn't think about posting it then, but as I'm doing another play-through, I thought I might as well.

Arthur had left Saint Denis in exceptionally high spirits. After traveling all the way from Horseshoe Overlook in pursuit of an elusive bounty, he was paid handsomely by the honorable Saint Denis lawmen, and decided it had been too long since he had done something nice for himself. So, he spent the night in a soft bed at the saloon, enjoyed a delicious meal, and brushed down his Arabian before heading out. He'd even had a bath and a haircut while he was in town, misusing the rest of the daylight to just walk around and see the city. He left feeling cleaner than he had in a long while. Which is why the heavy, sluggish, swamp rain was unnerving him so deeply.   
_Might as well have done nothin' at all,_ he thought bitterly, wiping his wet face with the back of his wet hand. He could camp, sure, but he would be doing little more than lying in mud. And that's to say nothing of the gators. _Hell on Earth, this place is.  
_He rode on.

At one point on the road, someone yelled out to him, unseen.  
"Hello there mister!" the voice chirped, real friendly like. Arthur slowed to a trot, scanning the tree-line, his hand on his pistol. "Hello!"   
Through the brush, he could just make out a small shack in the darkness. A man sat on the porch, unarmed, smiling at him warmly. It was a bit strange, but it wasn't the first time he'd been called off the road by a stranger. Wasn't always innocent though, he knew. He made sure his pistol was loaded and secured before dismounting and approaching, more curious than anything. Yelling out to, in his case heavily armed, strangers in the dead of night? _What a fool_ , he thought.   
"Hello, sir," Arthur finally returned as the shack came more clearly into view. It was pretty run-down, like most places out this way. There was an outhouse and a small shed in the back. A large wagon wheel was leaned against the front of the house, wood molded from exposure. Various empty bottles of alcohol surrounded the man on the porch. He had no shirt on under his dirty overalls. Arthur thought he was wearing shoes at first, but his feet where just so dirty they looked like leather.   
"Must get lonely out here, friend," he said as Arthur was sizing him up. An odd comment. Arthur chose not to respond, and didn't move beyond the front steps. Maybe he should just be back on his way. He needed to get back to camp anyway, promised Hosea he'd go out looking for a bear with him soon. He began to turn away, but the stranger continued.   
"So, ya hungry?" Arthur stopped. He was hungry, hadn't eaten yet that day. But more so he was eager to have a respite from the rain, maybe wait it out even. He couldn't tell where the rain stopped and his sweat began and he was miserable for it.   
"I got food...food inside," he went on, opening the door and waiting for Arthur. He paused only another moment before climbing the steps. The stranger was visibly unarmed and drunk; Arthur was neither. He could easily take him if it came to it. He decided not to worry, and trust that his marksman skills would save him as they always seemed to.

Arthur let the man hold open the door for him and entered the shack. He took a quick glance around. There was no food to be seen. He saw shackles on the bed. But by then it was too late. Arthur moved to turn, his hand on his pistol, but he didn't move fast enough.  
"Now, come here," the swine whispered before striking him once, powerfully, at the base of his skull with something that felt like wood. Arthur's body slumped to the floor, and the light quickly faded from his eyes. 

* * *

He awoke what must have been only minutes later. His vision was blurred, and he could feel blood dripping down the sides of his neck. He couldn't move his hands or feet. He realized suddenly that it was because he was bound.   
_Shit._ He didn't have much money on him. He hoped the stranger wasn't looting his Arabian; he'd stashed his bounty reward and a gold pocket watch there. He didn't have a chance to wonder for very long, as the stranger was soon in his view again.   
"Don't ya hate ol' Sunny now," he croaked, bending down to Arthur. "Don't ya hate him." The stranger, Sonny, grabbed Arthur by his hair and forced him to make eye contact with him. Arthur yelped at the pressure it put on his wound. "Oh, you struggled! And you lost...but it was quite a struggle, I tell you."  
Arthur glowered at him.  
"You can take my money. There ain't much." Sonny let go of him, and Arthur's head smacked back against the floor. Arthur could only see his disgusting feet.  
"Oh I don't want your money, friend," he laughed, a wet and mean noise. Arthur was confused until he heard his overalls unbuckle, then watched them fall around his ankles. Panic flooded Arthur's mind. He'd been robbed before, plenty of times. Beaten, sure. He'd be out some cash and some pride, but it wasn't a big deal. He'd prepared himself for those possibilities long ago. Hell, even dying didn't scare him much anymore. But not this. Never this. This didn't _happen_ to men. Certainly not men like Arthur. He began to struggle against his restraints violently.   
"Please," he found himself begging. "I have money, more on my horse. Hell, she's even worth a couple hundred herself. You don't gotta do this."  
He wondered how many times people had groveled at his own feet in a similar fashion. But never exactly like this. He had _never_ , would never, do anything like this.   
"Oh, I know. But I _want_ to friend. Now shut up."  
"Please," Arthur choked out before the wood came down on his head again, knocking him unconscious once more. 

He was roused only once, briefly, during the encounter. Light blurred into his eyes for only a moment. Lips were at his ear. He tried to jerk away but was quickly reminded of his binds. His entire body was on fire.   
"See!" Sonny growled, "friendship ain't so tough. And neither is you." The last of his words blurred as Arthur lost consciousness again. 

* * *

Arthur woke up abruptly when his body hit the mud. He heard the noise of quickly retreating footsteps. It was daylight now. He wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious, but in that moment all he could focus on was his pain. It was all over; he must have been punched or kicked pretty hard. But mostly it was in his head and his -.  
"Oh my Lord," Arthur gasped sharply, realizing very suddenly that _yes, that is what happened...happened to me._ His face grew hot with both fury and shame. What a damn fool he had been to even venture into the shack, let alone turn his back on the man. A fucking fool. He stood up slowly, grinding his teeth together to keep from crying out. It was almost unbearable, that pain. His Arabian came quickly when he whistled for her, she'd been waiting for him.   
"Good girl," he cooed gently, brushing his hand on her neck. He checked his pockets and saddlebag to reveal a single dollar missing from his count. Arthur felt anger wash over him again.   
_How_ dare _he? Who the hell did he think he was? Fucking animal piece of shit no good hillbilly..._  
The monologue went on like that for a bit while Arthur tried to get himself together. He didn't have his hat either. He was grumbling to himself, _stupid, dirty, inbred,_ until he went to mount his horse and realized he couldn't. He was in too much pain. Shame welled inside him again, pushing tears to his eyes. He bit it back until it was anger again, white hot and blinding, and began his slow walk back to the shack.

As he approached, Sonny jumped up from his seat on the porch, sending his chair flying backwards.   
"Oh, not you again!" he yelled before running into the shack. Not _him_ again? Not **him**? Like he had been the one to...to...

Something inside Arthur snapped then. He lost his vision, and for a moment he was worried he had passed out. But he regained it quickly only to find he had apparently retrieved his double barreled shotgun from his horse, and was already running up the porch steps. The entire walk back, Arthur had thought about what he was going to do to him. He'd wanted to tie him up, cut him into pieces, make it last a long, long time. But he wasn't in control of his body, could still barely see past his fury. He kicked the door down in spite of his aching body to find Sonny cowered on the floor like the vermin he was.   
"Get away from - !" but Arthur was already shooting. Again and again and again, long after the body had stopped twitching. Long after it stopped even looking like a body. He didn't stop until he reached for another bullet and found nothing. 

Lowering his shotgun, he took a mangled breath and realized he had been sobbing. Hard. Hot, angry tears were falling down his face. He wasn't even sure of the last time he'd cried. He let his sobs pitter out before he looked back at where Sunny had been, now just a bloody mess of flesh and denim. And it still wasn't enough. Arthur grabbed the dirty blanket off the bed and threw it over the corpse, so he would not have to touch him ever again. He carried the remains out to the swamp and threw them into the water, and watched as the gators devoured them. 

Arthur walked quickly back through the shack, trying not to look around. He found his father's hat atop the mantle like a prize, and returned to his horse. He took the closest train back to Valentine and walked most of the way back to camp. 

* * *

He returned in the midst of a party but the noise barely registered with him. Most of the time he just heard a cold, rushing sound in his ears. He hitched his horse and walked towards his tent quietly, hoping to remain unnoticed. To no avail though, as John quickly yelled out for him.   
"Arthur! You're back! Come drink!"  
He almost completely ignored him. He was covered in blood and mud and probably guts. But the promise of alcohol was very tempting at that moment. He'd drank all of his after, and it had worn off. He resolved to steal a bottle and have a bath before finally going to bed. 

At the fire, he took a swig from John but hadn't been able to grab a bottle for himself yet. The supply cart was, somehow, depleted of liquor. He took a seat on a fur and stared mutely into the flames, waiting for a full bottle to be passed near him. Took a while.   
"Arthur, you look like hell," Javeir remarked suddenly. He'd been ready to pass him a fresh bottle of whiskey, but stopped when he got a good look at him. Arthur's hand was already outstretched towards it. He merely grunted in response.   
"Arthur," Bill started from across the way, "didn't even notice you were there. Being awfully quiet." Arthur didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to be poked at right now. "You know, I met an interesting fella' in the swamps...real interesting." Everyone quieted, sure they were about to hear something juicy. Arthur met Bill's teasing gaze. There was no way they could've met in between all that, right? How long had he been out? "He seemed to know Arthur real well..." Arthur's heart fell into his knees. "And I mean _real_ well."   
The only sound was the crackling fire. The rage was there again, blinding and so close to shame he had to grit his teeth to hold back a scream. Instead, he felt like he watched himself take three large steps across the fire to push Bill back off his seat, hard.   
"You ever breathe a word of his again," he started, unable to tell how loudly he was speaking. There was wind rushing in his ears, "ever again, and I will shoot you until not even your momma would recognize you and then I'll feed you to the gators, just like I did to him. You understand?"  
Bill was lying on the ground beneath him, eyes wide and face pale. He merely nodded.   
Arthur turned on his heel, grabbed the bottle from Javier, and all but ran back to his tent. He barely had time to close the flaps before he was on the ground. In an effort not to scream or cry, he bit down hard on his fist, until he tasted his own blood. 

* * *

Hours later and Arthur had not been able to crawl into his bed. Not with this stink all over him. The party ended soon after his outburst, but he was waiting until it was all quiet to venture back out. With the whisky bottle empty, partially drank and partially spilled, he finally felt safe enough to drag a barrel of clean water, a rag, and a bar of soap into the tree line. In the darkness, he peeled off his clothing and threw it to the side. He'd burn it after; covered in his and Sonny's blood, there was no saving it. He wouldn't have tried regardless. He washed his wounds first, then the rest of his body, until the water he was wringing from the rag started to run clean. He dried himself as best he could and put on the clean clothes he had grabbed before dumping the water out. The barrel caught a rock and made a sharp cracking noise. Arthur cursed quietly, hoping whoever was on guard was slacking. Unfortunately, moments later, Hosea came down the hillside to him.   
"Arthur?" he called out. "Thought you stormed off to bed?"  
"Had to wash first," he grumbled, sitting the barrel right ways up.   
"Son?" Hosea was much closer now. He reached out to touch Arthur's shoulder. "What happened out there? Couldn't get a word out of Bill after what you said to him."   
That satisfied Arthur a bit. "Good."  
"What happened?"  
Arthur sucked in a cold breath. He didn't wanna tell him, he didn't wanna not tell him. More than anything, Arthur found himself wanting to be comforted in that moment. He needed someone to say it was going to be okay. That he would recover. That he wouldn't always feel numb and hear wind rushing in his ears.   
"Got caught off guard. Was stupid. Got hurt bad, but he paid for it."   
Hosea was quiet for a moment.   
"Hurt how, son?"  
"Bad," Arthur choked out, as that unmistakable shame rose in his throat, cutting off his air flow. Without the anger, it was cold and sharp. He felt tears roll out of his eyes despite how tightly he held his jaw, glad for the darkness. Suddenly, as if he'd read his mind, Hosea took him into a tight embrace. Arthur took a few shaking breaths in his arms, leaned into the safety he found there, before pulling away.   
" 'S alright. Told ya, he paid for it."  
"That don't erase it."  
"No, suppose not."   
Hosea put his hand on his shoulder again and guided him back, Arthur clutching at his ball of ruined clothes. They quietly made their way to the scout fire still ablaze. Sadie was sitting there, but did him the service of not acknowledging them. Arthur watched the fabrics burn away completely before he allowed Hosea to lead him back to his tent. When he followed him inside, Arthur almost protested. He was a full grown man. He didn't need to be babied by his father. But as Hosea gently pushed him to sit down on his bed, Arthur let it happen. He kept letting it happen as Hosea carefully took off his boots for him and lifted his feet into the cot. He couldn't deny how good it felt right then, that warmth, that safety, that love. He breathed it in and felt a moment of calm for the first time in what felt like weeks.   
"Get some rest, now," Hosea pulled the blanket up to Arthur's chin and sat next to him to rub his hand slowly up and down Arthur's arm. After a moment, he got up to leave, but Arthur was already asleep. 

* * *

Arthur didn't wake up until late the next day, and even then he was still exhausted. But his hunger had roused him, so he stumbled, sleep drunk and starving, to the stew at the center of camp. As he began ladling it out, Pearson approached him.   
"Feeling alright, Arthur?" he asked tentatively, looking at him closely. "You look like shit."  
Arthur went to bite back at him but realized he really did feel like shit. Well, in a different shitty way than he had felt yesterday.   
"Don't feel to well," he said to the ground, turning away back towards his tent.   
"Fuck Arthur, your head!"   
Arthur reflexively reached up to the touch the base of his skull and a searing pain spread across his eyes.   
_Well, that ain't healing right.  
_Dutch, who had been standing nearby, marched up to the men immediately, concern spilling across his face.   
"What in the hell happened?"   
Arthur panicked for a moment before coming up with a half-truth.   
"Got robbed. He hit me over the head a couple times."  
"Hell," Dutch breathed, looking at his head. He moved to touch the wound, but made a face that did not put Arthur at ease, and lowered his hand. "Did you get him? Get your property back?" Arthur merely nodded, staring into his stew. "Hope you taught him not to steal from the likes of you," the older man chuckled.   
Arthur nodded again. "He's dead," he said bluntly, and retreated to his tent to eat. 

* * *

After a couple of hours of hiding in his cot, Arthur was beginning to feel the toll of his wounds. The sharp, searing pains he'd felt yesterday had melted into nauseating aches. Apparently, being tossed into the mud with open wounds had not done him any favors. He needed to put some kind of salve on them, some herbs that would help him heal. He wasn't sure how to make it strongly enough himself, though. He usually ate raw, singular herbs if he had to, or sprinkled them on meat if he was feeling fancy. He wasn't sure how to make anything potent enough for this, or enough of it at that. He figured he could ask Miss Grimshaw, but she would insist on applying it for him, and he was not willing to show her all his wounds. He slowly went through everyone at camp before realizing he didn't much want to ask any of them. He didn't want to talk about yesterday, about Bill's comments, any of it, even if he was going to lie. He wanted to forget it had ever happened, but to do that he needed to stave off this infection. 

Arthur had tried to move quickly and discretely to his horse. Pearson stopped him, in the middle of a fight with Sadie.   
"Mr. Morgan! Going to town?" Arthur merely nodded as he climbed onto his horse, wincing as he sat and suddenly wishing he had brought his winter coat to cushion him. "Get some supplies for me, would ya?" He shoved a piece of paper into his hands. "Might want to take the cart."  
"Pearson I got other business in town -!"  
"Arthur _please_ take me with you," Sadie suddenly appeared at the side of his horse, "I can't spend another minute looking at this insufferable man."  
"You're lucky you're here at all!"  
"Not with you I ain't!"  
" _Fine!"_ Arthur bellowed suddenly, startling them both. He wanted to do whatever got this over with as quickly as possible. 

Riding away from camp, Arthur was already regretting his decision. He was ill and in pain and Sadie's driving did not make it any easier. At least being in a carriage meant he could sit without taking any breaks.  
"Other business in town, huh?"  
"Yeah."  
"What kind?"  
Arthur debated whether or not he should lie to her. More than likely she'd watch where he went.   
"Doctor."   
"What for?"  
"My head ain't healing right," as if to emphasize this, he reached back and touched it again. The same searing, blinding pain spilled across his vision. He didn't know what he expected to happen.   
"Susan could've made ya something, wouldn't have to spend money."  
Arthur didn't respond. He was so tired.   
"Ya know, I burned my clothes too. Quick as I could, after y'all picked me up."   
They met eyes. Of course they'd done that to her. He'd figured as much, but hearing it from her was different.   
"I'm sorry that happened to you, Sadie."  
"Yeah, me too."   
A silence lapsed where Arthur considered letting it drop. He knew Sadie wouldn't continue if he didn't want to.   
"How do you...how do you keep on living after?" he asked, looking out at the road.   
Sadie shrugged. "Ain't easy. I seem to keep wakin' up though."  
"Seems like it might be easier if I didn't."   
"Hmph," Sadie grunted, "at least you got to kill yours."   
Arthur looked at her. "We killed those O'Driscoll boys. Every one of them."  
"Nah, you didn't," she sighed. "Not the one who treated me the worst. Not the one that killed Jake. He left before you got there."  
Arthur reached out to touch her shoulder gently. "We'll find 'em Sadie. I promise, before this is all said and done we will find him."   
"Did it help?"  
"Huh?"  
"Killing him. Did it make ya feel any better?"  
There was a sliver of hope in Sadie's eyes. It crushed him. Arthur took a long time to answer.   
"Nah."

**Author's Note:**

> Rockstar won't process Arthur's trauma so I will do it for them. 
> 
> I had to write a similar thing to this after I watched That Episode of the Sopranos, to get out all my anger. Weird, it's almost like I have some unresolved trauma. Oh well, time to REPRESS THAT SHIT!


End file.
